


indulgences

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Sex, Declarations Of Love, Feelings, Future Fic, Gunshot Wounds, Inconvenient Arousal, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Serious Injuries, Sort Of, Thirium (Detroit: Become Human), Wire Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-27 07:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17762600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: As fucked up as it was, it sounded a whole of a hell lot like another kind of moan all together and Hank was a shameful man and human to boot, foibles and all. His hind brain couldn’t help but slot that sound into another corner of his experiences than on-the-scene wound treatment. Because fuck it, but that didn’t sound like a moan of pain, not at all, and Hank was going to hell for even thinking what he was thinking.





	indulgences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Masu_Trout](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masu_Trout/gifts).



Hank wasn’t sure how he always found himself in these sort of situations, but straddling Connor’s thighs while he bled out across the floors probably wasn’t actually the most embarrassing experience of his life. It just felt like it somewhere beneath the sheer existential terror he was currently grappling with in the back of his mind, a bone-deep horror that would surely result in an undignified scream and unfair, untrue words being hurled at Connor—he was not dying, he wasn’t, not if Hank could help it, even though Hank didn’t actually know how. Even now a shout clawed at the back of his throat and he wished like hell that anger would replace his fear. Anger was easy. Anger didn’t leave room for guilt.

And there was definitely guilt.

“Lieutenant,” Connor said, far too calm for this situation, the bastard, “I’m going to need you to help me.” He spoke slowly, as though to a child or an accident victim, just this side of patronizing and probably nicer than Hank actually deserved. He was supposed to have training, but the vast majority of what he knew involved humans who’d been shot. Not androids. And not like this. “Can you do that?”

 _No, asshole, I can’t,_ he thought. “If you’ll tell me what the fuck I’m supposed to do here, sure,” and that probably wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Connor’s job to make sure Hank knew what he was supposed to do in an emergency. Why the fuck weren’t there better first-aid classes for androids? That was probably a good thing to have now that they weren’t legally allowed to treat androids like property to be bought and sold, used and replaced. It mattered when androids were hurt—and though it had always mattered, now they should’ve been held more accountable for it. Hank should have been held more accountable for it. “I can help.”

Fuck. Hank apparently had to do everything for himself. As soon as they got themselves out of this mess, he was gonna have a sit down with Fowler. No way in hell was he going back out in the field without knowing what to do when his partner got hit close range with buckshot. Fuck, there were so many holes in Connor’s torso that it was a shock he hadn’t gone into catastrophic shutdown mode already.

“How long have I got?” Hank asked, nausea roiling inside of him.

Connor’s head tipped Hank’s way and there was a slight smile on his mouth, enigmatic, offering Hank exactly zero assurances in the process. “You’ll be fine. Just—” His brows furrowed as he tensed beneath Hank. The sudden jostling took Hank by surprise, reminded him exactly where he was currently perched and just how unfortunate it was to be happening under these—

No. Oh, no. No. That kind of thinking was not the sort he should’ve been engaging in under the circumstances. Not the sort of thinking he should’ve been doing under any circumstances honestly, but Hank lived for bad decisions and, in more appropriate venues like the privacy of his own home, he allowed himself that particular luxury. If Connor wasn’t busy inconveniently dying on him, he might have done a better time remembering what this felt like since he’d never get the chance again.

Connor’s hand wrapped around his, sticky with drying thirium. His grip was good, sure, full of deceptive strength. It was the first time Connor had touched him without it being on the other side of a handshake and Hank was more than a little enamored with the smooth stretch of his palm as it fit across Hank’s knuckles, perfect, like it was meant to be there, steadier than Hank’s shaking touch, that was for sure.

Connor’s grip slackened for a moment before he squeezed Hank’s fingers so tightly Hank was worried about his own circulation.

“Connor? You can give me the rundown anytime you like. I’m ready.” He wasn’t, not by a long shot, but it was what Connor needed right now and that was the only thing that mattered to Hank.

Guiding Hank’s hand over his abdomen, he said, “You’ll need to open the access panel. There’s a small—ah, okay. You’ve got it.”

“I’ve seen this part before,” Hank replied, a bid for confidence. It didn’t work, but at least he knew what to expect. To an embarrassingly miniscule degree. It didn’t work nearly well enough to prepare Hank for the truth, which was: multiple sparking wires, endless pulses of thirium filling Connor’s chest cavity, the brightening and dimming of Connor’s thirium pump regulator just above the now open panel.

This wasn’t anything like the Traci back at the Eden Club. He wasn’t close enough to see the damage. And Connor found it in his heart to call him out for it.

“You’ve seen me do this before,” Connor corrected, because even when he was dying he couldn’t help being a shit about it.

“Who the hell even keeps buckshot these days? What the fuck are they hunting that’s not a protected species?”

“Androids,” Connor answered, hoarse, on the verge of a coughing fit, “apparently.” Thirium, too blue and too bright, painted his lower lip in purplish shades that Hank didn’t like at all. Made him want to swipe it away. Made him want to kiss it away.

“Ha. That’s funny because no one gives a shit about androids.” Without anything else to go on, Connor’s hand still on the back of his, he was dangerously close to freaking out. His response came out a little shriller than he would have liked in any case. The hell of it was Connor was a lot closer to the truth than Hank cared to acknowledge. It wasn’t Hank their suspect had shot at before running like a coward, every drone Hank could scramble following until another officer could pick him up. “Real cute, Connor. How about instead of wasting your last moments being a comedian, you help me fix this?”

Connor nodded, his eyes glazing and going distant. His voice was a little slurry and Hank didn’t like the sound at all, almost slapped Connor across the mouth to get his attention again. “Do you have a lighter?”

“Oh, hell no,” But even as he said it, he was rifling in his pocket. Half the time he wasn’t even sure why he carried it, but he was grateful that he did as he brandished it for Connor to see.

“I really should carry clips,” Connor mused, dreamy, all the more terrifying to Hank’s ears. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it.” He winced. “You’ll have to burn the edges of the damaged conduits and stop the bleeding that way. It’s not very civilized, but it’ll buy me a little more time.”

“Won’t that hurt?”

Connor laughed and Hank had half a mind to slap him for it. Clearly the guy was delirious. “No,” he said, “that’s not going to be the problem here. Hank, please, before more of my biocomponents decide to shut down.”

Not helpful.

“Okay, so I just…” Hank flicked the lighter and was suddenly keenly aware all over again that he was straddling Connor’s lap. Reminded him of the shit he got up to when he was a younger man, thinking he was cool and edgy because he sometimes let someone melt some wax on his balls. Which absolutely wasn’t the right thing to be thinking about right now. Jesus. What the hell was wrong with him? He didn’t even really like that shit anymore. “What about the wires?”

“Try not to electrocute yourself on them.” Connor sighed. “They’ll be fine. They’re replaceable.”

It was all well and good for Connor to bleed out so cavalierly, but it annoyed Hank to no end that he was willing to be so flip when it was in Hank’s hands like this. It wasn’t as though CyberLife was stashing more bodies for Connor to transfer into these days.

“Deliberately burn you,” Hank grumbled. “Of all the goddamned things.” Still, he reached into Connor’s abdomen as asked and winced as he slipped his fingers around the nearest damaged tube. It was way more flexible than he expected it to be, organic seeming and slippery. The lighter’s flickering, inconstant flame illuminated the inside of Connor’s chest cavity in ways Hank wanted to forget immediately. It would have been beautiful in other circumstances probably. The metal frame of his torso was elegantly wrought that contrasted nicely against the blue that should have pumped through the clear plastic conduits that were currently riddled with buckshot.

Would’ve made a real artsy photo with all the curving, curling shadows, too.

Hank brought the first tube close to the flame, held it there until it softened and then pinched the ends together, heedless of the heat. All that mattered was it worked. He did the same to the other end, though it didn’t seem entirely necessary as the thirium dribbling from it was nowhere near the quantity that gushed from the first end. He found the next and began to do the same until—

Until Connor groaned and wriggled beneath him, setting all sorts of warning bells off in his head. “Shit, Connor. You said it wouldn’t hurt.” He probably shouldn’t have been as much of a dick about it as he was, sharp enough to cut, but he was angry, okay? He was finally angry, but it did nothing to stop the guilt that lapped at the base of his skull, familiar though the refrain was new. Connor was his own man and could take care of himself, but a part of Hank still felt responsible for him, still believed that he had to protect Connor from his own foolheadedness.

But Connor hadn’t been a fool in quite some time, didn’t go charging into situations simply because it was the mission, throwing his life at every problem that came his way because it was worthless when he had another shell waiting for him back home. Hank hadn’t had to be a shield in so long, he didn’t remember what doing so was like.

Maybe he needed to revive the practice now that Connor seemed to be finding danger even when he wasn’t looking for it. Assuming, of course, that Hank didn’t get him killed here and now.

“You’re fine,” Connor said, voice pitching high and wavering. His eyelids fluttered and his teeth flashed as he bit his lower lip. “You’ve almost got it. And I would appreciate you finishing this up as quickly as possible. Please.”

Hank frowned, not quite able to figure out what struck him so wrong about Connor’s words and mannerisms. But his cop instincts were getting the better of him. He didn’t like thinking of Connor lying to him, but he definitely got the feeling Connor wasn’t telling him the truth. And there was really only one thing he could be lying about though, couldn’t there? “Damn it, Connor,” he said, finally picking up the pace like Connor had wanted him to. “This is bullshit.”

He was gonna die. And it was Hank’s fault.

“I wouldn’t disagree with you,” Connor said and wasn’t that just great? He had a comeback for everything, even when he was dying. And seriously, too. That had to have been what he was being dishonest about. Hank had to assume it was even worse than he’d said.

And here Hank had thought he wasn’t whitewashing the truth for him. “When I get you out of here, we’re having a good, long talk about—”

Hank’s knuckles brushed a tangle of wires and set them sparking, which only succeeding in causing Connor to spasm and moan again. “Ow, motherfuck—” And in the process of trying to extricate his fingers, he caught his nail on one of them, yanking at it and earning himself yet another moan from Connor for his troubles.

As fucked up as it was, it sounded a whole of a hell lot like another kind of moan all together and Hank was a shameful man and human to boot, foibles and all. His hind brain couldn’t help but slot that sound into another corner of his experiences than on-the-scene wound treatment. Because fuck it, but that didn’t sound like a moan of pain, not at all, and Hank was going to hell for even thinking what he was thinking.

It’d been a while since he’d had a good-looking guy between his legs. That was all. And Connor was good looking, Hank couldn’t deny that fact as much as he wanted to. It wasn’t that Hank was the kind of asshole…

But he was. He really, really was.

Only Hank would think about how pretty Connor looked while he was dying. Well fucking done, Hank Anderson, you win the partner of the year award with this one.

“That’s—I think that’s good,” Connor said, shaky, as Hank cauterized the last of the conduits. But he wouldn’t meet Hank’s eyes as he shifted. “You can get off of me now. I need—”

In his haste to pull back, chastised and embarrassed and desperate to do exactly what Connor said because it made more sense than what he was doing, which was something akin to masochism and definitely inappropriate, Hank’s fingers tangled in Connor’s wires yet again. Connor swore and stilled, grimacing, and then whimpered as Hank pulled free. That sound. It’d be the end of Hank. And if this were some place else entirely, he’d have wanted to hear it as often as he was capable of wringing it from Connor’s tensed throat.

If he ignored the sudden tightness of his trousers, he might get through this okay.

Why did Connor have to sound _like that_ when he was fucking dying? That just wasn’t fair.

“Hank, I’m so—”

“I’m sorry. This is—”

As soon as he regained his senses, Connor wrapped his hand around Hank’s wrist. Both of them were tacky with thirium, not yet completely dried. At least Connor looked like he had a little life left in him.

Of course, getting out of this without embarrassing himself further would require Connor to be less observant, but even as Hank swung his leg free and twisted, ginger, to do as Connor asked, Connor’s eyes fell to Hank’s stomach and then dipped lower.

Son of a bitch.

All Hank could hope for was a last minute reprieve straight from heaven because there was no way in hell Connor wasn’t one-hundred percent aware of what was going on here now. There’d been a time when Hank might’ve been able to assume innocence or ignorance on Connor’s part—though that wasn’t certain either—but there wasn’t a single chance Connor didn’t know everything he needed in order to put two and two together and come up with ‘Hank gets off on playing around in Connor’s insides when he’s at his most vulnerable.’

That… wasn’t entirely true. But no way it didn’t look that way to Connor right now. “This isn’t what it looks like,” Hank said, like shitty liars everywhere who just wanted to cover their shitty tracks and knew they didn’t have a damned leg to stand on. “This isn’t _exactly_ what it looks like.”

There. That amendment solved everything, right?

Connor’s eyes widened. So, uh, maybe it didn’t. Connor’s lips pursed together and he frowned and Hank was definitely sure he hadn’t solved anything with that amendment now.

Crap.

No amount of damage control would save him from this because it was totally, one-hundred percent, for sure inappropriate. Connor had every right to want to haul him before an internal review board and slap a harassment lawsuit on him. Don’t fall in love with your partner; everyone knew that was rule number one. But Hank had never known where to draw the line with Connor. He’d never been very good at drawing any line, letting the bastard through his cracks since the beginning. Nobody else had every gotten under his skin quite as thoroughly and, more impressively, nobody else had stuck with him anyway, mostly good-natured the whole way through.

Hank didn’t deserve him and Connor certainly didn’t deserve to be dragged down by even more of Hank’s baggage.

“Look, sometimes humans just—” But the defense sounded weak and pathetic even to his own ears. Though maybe that would’ve happened anyway. Hank _was_ a weak and pathetic man. “It’s an autonomous—”

“I understand how it works, Hank,” Connor said, pressing his hand to his abdomen as the panel slid back into place. Whatever else Hank had done, the patch job did seem to have helped. Every moment brought a little more spark in Connor’s voice, a little more strength. Still, he sounded a bit as though he’d shatter if he wasn’t careful about it. “You don’t have to explain to me. I know I’m not—”

Whatever Connor was going to say got strangled as he pushed himself to his feet and listed dangerously to the side, catching himself on his hand as he stumbled.

Without thinking much about it, Hank slid Connor’s arm around his shoulders and hated himself a little bit more for how comforting it was to have that weight against the back of his neck, how much he liked Connor’s hip bumping awkwardly into his as they shuffled out of their suspect’s house and onto the street. “There’s some thirium in the trunk,” Hank said. That was at least one thing they’d thought to keep on hand at least. “That should help.”

“Sure,” Connor agreed, though Hank got the distinct feeling his heart wasn’t in it.

“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” It was a good fifteen minutes to the nearest emergency repair clinic. “I don’t want—”

“I’ll manage,” Connor said, waspish, very unlike himself. It was enough to startle Hank as he helped get Connor into the passenger’s seat, his hand solicitous on Connor’s back. Thirium loss would make anyone cranky, he supposed, but the paranoid corners of Hank’s mind wondered if it wasn’t his touch that had set Connor off, his admission.

As he settled into the driver’s seat, he tossed a pouch of thirium into Connor’s lap where it sat, stubbornly unopened, for the duration of the trip.

Neither of them commented on that fact as the technicians ran diagnostics and prepared the various replacement parts that would be needed. Hank carefully avoided looking too startled by how many bits and pieces were beginning to stack up on the tray next to Connor’s bed. Now wasn’t the time to complain and he had known it was bad. It wasn’t that Connor had lied to him about the severity of it, it was just that Hank maybe hadn’t realized exactly what that meant until the evidence was right before his eyes this way, wrapped in pristine plastic, glinting under the harsh white light of the clean room.

There was one thing going for this place: it was easier to look at Connor from behind the mask and protective equipment they’d forced him to don, heavy plastic apron, gloves, googles, even booties—”for the static,” the tech had explained, like Hank didn’t know the ropes.

The tech worked quietly and efficiently, might as well not even been there except for the crinkle of plastic as each part was unwrapped, the click and clatter as the defective parts were cut away and replaced, the quiet hiss as the air in the room filtered in and out.

All the while, Connor stared exclusively at the ceiling, showing no interest in the proceedings, his face studiously blank. It was possibly the most awkward hour Hank had ever passed and that was saying a lot given the way his last hour had gone. 

This wasn’t the first time Hank had landed himself in a mortifying situation. It should’ve been easier to handle given all his practice at it, but all he could do was sit here while his thoughts circled around and around, folding back on themselves and twisting up uselessly in his mind. He had to say something, fix this before they both decided to brush it under the rug.

As nice as that idea sounded, Hank knew it would only rear up later and bite them both in the ass. Besides, he had to know whether Connor wanted to file charges. If he did, he wouldn’t stop Connor.

Approximately a glacial age later, the tech stepped back and gave Connor the usual rundown. An hour to run some basic tests and calibrations and then he’d be free to go. The tech pointed toward a light above the door that was currently flickering in varying shades of orange. “As soon as the light goes green, you’re welcome to go.”

Thank God.

Too bad all that greeted Hank when the tech left was a somber, silent pall, almost oppressive in how thoroughly complete it was. Connor’s fingers twitched, the only part of him that Hank could stomach looking at, and Hank could almost see the coin that Connor would’ve wanted there if he had one.

Hank rifled in his pocket and flicked a quarter at him. He caught it easily, even without looking at Hank or knowing it was coming. That got a smile out of Connor at least, which was something.

“Thanks,” Connor said, begrudging. The coin flickered and glinted across Connor’s knuckles, soothing even to Hank, who usually thought of it as the most annoying trick in Connor’s massively annoying book of tricks.

“Listen,” Hank said, leaning toward the bed from where he was sitting. “I don’t want you—I understand if you’re upset and want—”

“I’m not upset,” Connor replied. “I’m embarrassed.” Connor glared at the ceiling. “I know you’re pretending ignorance for my sake, but you can’t have gone this long without seeing a… film where…”

Hank flushed red, heat suddenly flooding his face and… other parts. He didn’t seek that shit out, got too close to a truth he didn’t particularly want to investigate, but you didn’t get far surrounded by vice cops hauling in androids with exposed wires spilling from the backs of their necks, homicides where android chest had been cracked open in the aftermath of crimes of passion, the human or android suspect’s fingertips burned in the course of love gone wrong.

Oh. _Oh._

Connor’s cheeks jumped as he tightened his jaw. Through clenched teeth, he said, “They’re all wires, aren’t they?”

And Hank’s hamfisted, fumbling attempts to fix those conduits had only resulted in Hank pawing every damned wire he came across. “Shit, Connor. I didn’t know.” But he should have. He was an investigator with the police department. It was his job to notice things. “I would’ve been careful.”

“You were careful. I saw how careful you were. But it felt incredible and…”

“And you were this close to catastrophic shutdown,” Hank said, specifically avoiding the rest of what Connor spoke into the universe. It made Hank want things he didn’t deserve. “I think you can be forgiven for not thinking straight right at the moment. I was going to have to do it regardless.”

Connor’s face lost the grief that twisted his features. He went blank and cold, like a deactivated android. “Hank, you’re the only one I would have trusted to do that. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of that fact.”

Now Connor was just pissing him off and Hank was half-convinced he was doing it on purpose. “Jesus Christ. I’d do whatever you needed me to do in order to make sure you don’t bleed out. It’s not taking advantage of me. This isn’t some after-school special.” That Hank wasn’t unhappy with the situation—except for this quagmire of nobody here saying what the fuck they meant—was something he, admittedly, didn’t want to reveal either. And maybe ‘wasn’t unhappy’ wasn’t quite the right way of phrasing it. He was deeply unhappy with how this had gone if it was going to upset Connor the way it had. And he regretted that maybe they’d both walked into something without quite understanding the consequences of it. But. In some version of reality where Connor wanted Hank to touch him as intimately as all that and reality hadn’t forced their hands on the matter, he would’ve wanted to. He would have wanted to so damned much it threatened to crack open his sternum and rip out his heart.

That was the truth of it, not that he’d ever have admitted it to Connor. Though at this rate, he was going to have to if Connor was going to make overwrought assumptions about it.

Sometimes, the only way out was through. Let the chips fall where they may. Brad Pitt said that in a movie once. But Brad Pitt was an asshole in that movie. What the fuck did he know?

Fuck, but he hated spilling his guts to people. It only ever ended in awkwardness. Not that this wasn’t already as awkward as it was gonna get. And Connor didn’t look assuaged. Rather, it seemed a whole lot like he was about to gouge his lower lip and maybe spontaneously develop lasers that shot out of his eyes that would bore a hole in the wall he was staring down.

“Hank,” Connor said, slow and deliberate and oh, this was bound to be good, “if you want another partner, I’d under—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Hank said, loud, a little unhinged, thoroughly fucking done with this whole situation. He pulled the mask free of his face and his hands bracketed Connor’s cheeks as he pushed himself to his feet. Some sensor or other beeped in displeasure, but Hank couldn’t give less of a fuck about it at that moment. Not when Connor’s skin was cool to the touch, flawless in every sense of the word, and his eyes were widening all over again with something Hank was going to pretend was actually hope and not disappointment.

Hank wasn’t always the best at reading Connor. Obviously.

Connor made a low, surprised sound in the back of his throat as Hank pressed their lips together, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t stiffen beneath Hank’s touch, frozen in place by mortification. The coin clattered against the bed and then Connor’s own hands were in Hank’s hair, fingers winding in the long strands, tugging Hank even closer.

The android equivalent of a hospital bed probably wasn’t the best place to do this, but Hank had never had good timing and now was proving to be no exception. But that was okay. Connor didn’t seem to mind, focused entirely on pulling Hank’s lip between his teeth and swiping his tongue across the seal of Hank’s mouth. If Hank wasn’t still preoccupied with his main thought of _holy shit, Connor’s actually kissing me back_ , he’d have wondered just where in the hell Connor had learned to kiss like that at all, devastating in his determination.

Unlike Connor, though, Hank actually needed to breathe—damn human limitations anyway, it wasn’t _fair_ —and forced himself to pull away only when his lungs staged the most petulant of protests and not a moment sooner. “Holy shit,” he said, brushing his hand across his lips, following the slightly metallic taste of Connor’s lips with the pads of his fingers. “I, uh—”

Should he apologize? Should he ask Connor if that meant what he thought it meant? Should he draw in a deep breath and dive back in? That possibility tantalized him beyond reason.

“I hope that means what I think it means, Hank,” Connor said, careful, distant. It broke Hank’s heart that Connor would treat what Hank had just done like it was a fragile, breakable thing. It wasn’t an admission like you’d get in a movie, big and blatant, but it was more than enough for Hank to go on.

Shit. How long had they been this stupid about themselves?

“I don’t go around kissing people I don’t like,” Hank answered, “if that’s what you think it means.” Another admission that wouldn’t have made it very far in a movie, but enough to draw a wide smile to Connor’s mouth. At that moment, it was the only thing Hank ever wanted or needed to see again.

And maybe that would’ve made for a good, sappy movie admission, but those particular words wouldn’t cross his lips even if he wanted them to. And anyway, they didn’t fully encompass what Hank felt and sounded too cheesy to boot as they rattled around in his skull. Connor deserved better than Hank’s platitudes.

He deserved better than Hank, but Hank wasn’t gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.

Connor ducked his head and reached up to adjust the tie he’d lost somewhere along the way.

Hank hadn’t even noticed its absence until now. And now it was the only thing he could focus on, that and the pristine stretch of Connor’s exposed neck.

“Maybe we could, uh.” Hank cleared his throat and palmed the base of his skull. Only he and Connor would end up in this kind of weird-ass situation. But Hank had to try. “Try that again. On purpose this time.”

Connor huffed a mildly amused laugh and shook his head as he picked the coin back up and flipped it a few times. “I’d like that. And maybe this time I can return the favor.” His eyes found Hank’s and it was at that point that Hank knew everything would be fine, that they’d be better than fine because Connor was looking at him with awe, with goddamned gratitude, like Hank wasn’t the one benefiting here entirely. Whatever Hank had done to make Connor think he wasn’t the most incredible person he’d ever met, he was dead set I’m fixing it as soon and as often as possible. “Thank you, Hank. For saving my life. For…”

Really, it was Hank who should be thanking Connor, but Connor always seemed to know what Hank was thinking anyway. At least when it came to things other than Hank’s feelings for him. He raised his hand to stall Connor’s words, though he didn’t know what to say in response.

The light above the door turned green, at which point Connor climbed hastily from the bed, looking far better than he had any right to for a guy who’d been dying only a few hours ago.

It still didn’t seem entirely real that Connor even would want anything like that with him. Him, of all people.

Clasping his arm around Connor’s shoulder, he pulled him close in a sidelong hug and squeezed tightly.

Bastard.

But one who Hank was incredibly lucky to have.


End file.
